Better Late than Never
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Tag to Captain America. Set immediately after the movie. Steve Rogers is having trouble adjusting to his new reality,he's haunted by his past, and the confines of the SHIELD offices aren't helping. Rated T to be safe.


_Movieverse. Set almost immediately after the last scene of "Captain America: The First Avenger." I started this last summer, but seeing the Avengers helped me beat the writer's block. _

_Thanks to geminigrl11 and Phx. All belongs to Marvel, I own nothing._

**Better Late Than Never**

"_You've been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years…."_

_New York City_

The next few days were dizzying. Steve was ushered back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility downtown, under official orders to stay on base until authorized to leave. The orders came straight from the Pentagon—apparently, Steve was still enlisted, even after sixty-six years on ice at the North Pole—but for all the smiles and reassuring words, it was plainly obvious that he was a _prisoner_, at least until this Director Fury character said otherwise.

The facility was comfortable, and well-equipped, if a bit stuffy. There was an impressive gymnasium, a "TV" room, whatever that was, a computer lab that looked _nothing_ like any computer lab he'd ever seen…mostly all below street level, concealed from prying eyes. The dormitories were above ground, disguised as a bland, run-down office building.

Steve didn't much care about any of it. After a stressful battery of medical exams and tests—that far exceeded the Army's recruitment exams and Doctor Erskine's experiments—he was debriefed on his last mission of the war, and then shown around by some uptight woman named Hill, who politely but firmly reminded him that he wasn't to try to go outside again. So, he had spent the better part of the past two days in his considerably-more-comfortable-than-the-last-barracks-he'd-slept-in dormitory room, staring out the window at a New York City he didn't recognize.

And trying to wrap his brain around the "sixty-six years" part.

Steve was told the Second World War had ended not long after he went down in Red Skull's bomber, but it seemed America had fought several wars since then, and was currently embroiled in new ones in the Middle East. The number of cars on the streets below had multiplied considerably, computers were smaller and stranger, planes were faster, city lights were brighter, fashions had gone crazy, music was unintelligible…and most of the people he remembered were dead.

Steve might have had an easier time accepting all the changes if not for that last part.

Colonel Phillips he had more or less expected. Seven decades was too long of a time, even for that cast-iron old bastard. Steve had asked about the Howling Commandos, but their records were classified, and no one could even say whether they were alive, dead, retired….

Then there was Peggy.

If Steve was honest with himself, it was Peggy who had consumed his thoughts more than anything or anyone else.

It had seemed to him, at the time at least, that maybe the right girl had finally come along, and maybe she felt the same in return. He'd promised her a date, a week after he was finished diving Red Skull's plane into the ice to save New York. _A week next Saturday, at The Stork Club._

It had been a fantasy, an attempt to lessen the pain of his imminent death, and he knew that they both knew it. If that was how it had ended, he might have been happy to have at least _tried_ to make it easier.

But then he woke up. By some miracle, he was still alive and Peggy….

A quick knock at the door behind him roused him from that morose line of thinking. Steve turned, almost calling out _come in_, but belatedly realizing that he'd left the door open. Nick Fury stood in the doorway, holding a duffel.

"How are you holding up, Cap?" The dark-skinned man asked casually.

His tone was mild, his one-eyed stare wasn't. Steve felt like he was under a microscope every time he was in the S.H.I.E.L.D. director's presence. That glaring eye seemed to dissect, analyze, categorize and find everything it saw wanting. It made Steve nervous, despite the fact that Fury had been nothing but helpful since he'd been here.

"Okay." Steve offered with a slight shrug, wanting to say more but the words dying in his throat.

Fury's expression didn't change, the eye didn't even blink. Steve heard a faint grunt: whether acceptance or doubt, he couldn't tell.

After a moment, the director lifted the duffel he was holding and heaved it onto the bunk. "My agents finally found some clothes in the right sizes, figured you'd be more comfortable."

Steve nodded and stepped over to peer inside the bag. "No uniform?"

Fury raised an eyebrow. "Should there be?"

"They, um," Steve hesitated. "I was told I was still enlisted."

"Hmm," Fury nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and stepping further into the room. "That's right. Seems no one in the War Department back then had the heart to take you off the MIA list, even after the search parties came home."

Steve nodded and turned back to the duffel, even though Fury hadn't really answered his question.

"Officially, you're on administrative leave until further notice, if that answers your question." Fury said, watching as if waiting for something.

Steve wasn't sure what to say. He had his orders, such as they were. A thousand questions were on his mind, some more important than others, but he figured that Fury wasn't going to sit and listen to all of them. He seemed to be a busy man, so Steve just nodded and mustered up a weak, forced smile. "Very good, sir."

He felt that stare on him for a few long moments, but then Fury silently moved to leave. He was almost to the door when Steve blurted out one question that was plaguing him. "Has anyone had time to check on that list I made?"

For the first time, Steve noted some hesitation. The director turned and regarded him with that stare again, but then stepped closer and pulled a folded note from his pocket.

"The doctors' reports mentioned you were having some trouble with this, Cap." Fury said as he handed the note to Steve. "I know it must sound crazy, but you really shouldn't dwell on it."

Steve took the note, holding it for a moment without looking. He'd heard the docs muttering about "trauma" and "PTSD," whatever that was, and glancing at him like they expected him to curl up into a ball at any moment. Fury might be right, but it was important for him to know.

"I'll try to remember, that. Thank you, sir."

Fury nodded after a moment and left the room, closing the door behind him. Steve glanced back out the window, then sank onto the bed and opened the paper.

Many of the names, including all of the members of the Howling Commandos, were labeled "CLASSIFIED."

Chester Phillips, General, died 1985.

Steve had to smirk. _Figures he'd make it past 100_.

Howard Stark, died 1982.

Steve scanned the rest of the list quickly, noting that it was pretty much what he had expected. Except the one entry he had both dreaded seeing and yet most wanted to see.

Peggy Carter, S.S.R./British Army Liaison. Unknown.

**CAPCAPCAP**

When Agent Phil Coulson arrived at Nick Fury's office in New York, he found the director watching the video from Captain America's debriefing two days earlier. On the screen, Agent Romanov was asking about the battle over the Arctic Circle.

"_You were talking about the cube_."

"_Right. Um, when he touched it_—"

"'_He' being Johann Schmidt, AKA Red Skull?_"

Coulson watched as Rogers hesitated, scratching behind his ear nervously as Romanov peered across the table at him.

"_Yes, ma'am. Schmidt showed me the cube. He wasn't making a lot of sense, about how it would make him a god, and all that. Colonel Phillips had told us he was insane. But, when he took it—the cube—out of the…generator, I guess, it seemed to explode. It was incredible really, the sky seemed to open up in the roof of the plane, and then the energy from it— His body just…evaporated and disappeared into this column of light. Then it was over. The cube burned through the floor and fell. I didn't see it again_."

Fury stopped the recording. "Strange isn't it, Coulson? That last part."

Coulson tried to decipher the look on his superior's face. As usual, it was next to impossible. He was used to that. "You think Captain Rogers is holding something back?"

"Not at all," Fury shook his head, turning back to the monitor. "I think he saw exactly what he says he saw."

Fury rewound the video and played it again.

"…_the sky seemed to open up in the roof of the plane, and then the energy from it— His body just…evaporated and disappeared into this column of light."_

"That sound familiar to you, Phil?"

Coulson frowned for a moment. Then it clicked. "The incident in New Mexico."

It had been reported—by Rogers, over the radio—that Red Skull had died on board his aircraft, shortly before Captain America brought the plane down. He had not reappeared on the world scene after the war, so all the authorities involved had simply assumed the best.

Rogers' new testimony…skewed that long-accepted assumption.

Thor's arrival on Earth bore more than a passing resemblance to the kind of event Rogers was describing, and the Tesseract—which Howard Stark had recovered from the seafloor in 1946—certainly fit with some of what they knew of Thor's world. Red Skull may well have harnessed Asgardian technology, all those years ago. "Do you believe that Johann Schmidt could still be alive, sir?"

Fury's expression turned grim. "I'd prefer _not_ to think that…but, given that HYDRA is still alive and well, and that trouble in East Africa recently…."

Coulson simply nodded. It would explain many things. And if Red Skull had been to Asgard and back—and somehow extended his life—there was no way to know what he might have brought back to Earth with him. Or who. Perhaps the Avengers Initiative was coming together just in time.

"In any case," Fury continued, swiveling to face Coulson. "We should keep Steve Rogers' resurrection under wraps for the time being."

"Yes, sir."

"I also want you to set up a meeting with Professor Foster in Puente Antiguo, I'd like her to hear the Captain's story—the redacted version, of course—and compare it to the notes she has on Thor's wormhole."

"Understood. Will that be all, Director?"

Before Fury could reply, the intercom on his desk beeped. "Yes?"

"Director, we have the information you requested. Forwarding it to your screen, now."

Fury glanced at the computer screen for moment, another indecipherable look on his face. He finally nodded and met Coulson's eyes again.

"Actually, I need you to do something else, as soon as you're finished with Ms. Foster."

**CAPCAPCAP**

Steve had nothing to do.

Giving up on sleep sometime after dawn, he'd roamed the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility for a while, until he found his way to the gym. He tried out every piece of equipment—fortunately, the machines he was unfamiliar with had illustrated instructions mounted on walls behind them—in the room, breaking a sweat but hardly overexerting himself. It was difficult to get tired from a workout when his strength was several orders of magnitude above that of the average human male.

_Five hours in the gym without a break is normal…right?_

Afterward, he'd searched out breakfast, then retired to his room. Cell. Whatever it was.

Someone had been kind enough to leave a newspaper, as they had each day for the past two weeks, but he didn't open it. The world was so…. _What happened while I was gone? _The American government seemed dysfunctional, many parts of the world that he remembered as European colonies were in turmoil…some bordered on chaos. Even the news reports themselves were cynical, almost sarcastic.

Maybe Fury would consent to re-freezing him. It was just too much. For all the technological advances Steve saw around him, the world itself had _degenerated_.

Steve sat on the bed beside the duffel that Fury had given him. All of the clothes—_his_ clothes, he supposed—were back in the bag, except for the simple green-brown flannel button-down shirt and a pair of tan slacks he wore. He'd blinked when looking in the mirror earlier. Somehow he had managed to dress in his old army colors without intending.

He'd been told the night before that Agent Hill would be taking him to England. Another debriefing, it sounded like from how they were talking. He sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, hands locked behind his head.

He _was_ tired, but not from the workout. Sleep had been eluding him ever since…well, ever since he'd seen confirmation that everyone and everything he knew was gone. _What am I supposed to do now?_

For the moment, he settled for doodling. He'd found an unused notebook in his wanderings, and no one seemed to mind him taking it. Steve didn't consider himself a great artist, but Bucky had always liked his drawings, and he'd seen Peggy looking through them one night between missions during the war.

Steve was putting the last touches on a drawing of his old building in Brooklyn when he heard footsteps out in the hallway. He'd been keeping the door open, in case anyone came by—and just in case his new "friends" turned ugly. Pessimism wasn't exactly in his makeup, but he was feeling jumpy for reasons he couldn't quite pin down.

_Gee, Steve, maybe it's the whole seventy years into the future business!_ He shook his head and simply turned the page. Fury was right, dwelling on it wasn't helping anything. He was still a virtual prisoner there, and the world was still alien to him, and everyone he knew—

Maybe he'd try to draw Peggy again. His first attempt came out looking more like Betty Boop and he'd trashed it. Drawing people wasn't his strong suit.

"Captain Rogers?"

Steve looked up, finding Agent Hill at the door. He hesitated only a moment before answering. "Hi."

"Are you ready to leave, sir?"

Hill was polite enough, but not all that friendly. Steve wasn't sure if that was normal for her, or if it was something to do with him. "Yeah, sure."

Steve closed the notebook and slipped it into the duffel before zipping up the bag.

"I didn't realize you were an artist," Hill commented. Her expression seemed amiable enough. Steve shrugged.

"Just passing the time. I'm not that good at it."

Hill seemed to accept that as they left the room and headed down the hall to an elevator. The ride down was silent, Hill standing stiffly with her hands folded in front. That seemed as loose as the woman ever got. Not that Steve could talk, since he was standing at near attention, save the bag slung over his shoulder. It was safer for him to keep his mouth shut, even if Peggy's voice kept echoing in his mind.

_You still don't know a bloody thing about women._

When they reached the underground garage and piled into a black car with blacked out windows, Steve glanced at Hill. "When is this meeting supposed to be?"

"Around 2000 tonight." Hill answered casually.

Steve's eyes widened. "Um…shouldn't we have left earlier?"

Hill regarded him curiously. "I don't— Oh. No, Captain, trans-Atlantic flights are faster these days. London's about a seven hour trip."

_Seven hours? That's all?_ In his day, that would have been unheard of. Steve blinked dumbly for a moment. "Oh."

"Actually," Hill continued. "We'll do a little better. S.H.I.E.L.D. has access to faster jets than the normal airlines."

Steve grunted. "Must be nice."

**CAPCAPCAP**

"Bucky!"

Steve crept along, balancing himself on the twisted metal framework where the HYDRA guard had blasted out the train's side. He reached again, his gloved hand falling just short of where Bucky clung for dear life.

"Steve!" Bucky called, slipping again. Their hands were inches apart, but with the train shaking and the wind whipping by it might as well have been a mile.

"Hang on!" Steve yelled back, trying to get better footing so he could lean out further. Bucky didn't have the time.

"Steve!" Bucky's hands finally slipped free of the wrecked bulkhead. Steve could only watch as his friend plummeted—

"Captain?"

Steve jolted awake. He blinked several times until the interior of the S.H.I.E.L.D. airplane came into focus. Agent Hill was sitting across from him with a concerned expression on her face. "Are you all right?"

Glancing around, he noticed several of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were looking at him. Steve straightened in the seat, self-consciously wiping at his face and getting his breathing under control. The dream had seemed so real….

Belatedly, he realized Hill was still watching him. "Yeah. Yes, ma'am. I'm fine."

Hill clearly didn't believe him, but was polite enough to not call him out about it. Instead, her voice was businesslike. "We're descending. I thought you'd want to be awake when we landed."

"Thanks," Steve said quietly. He could see lights outside the window of the plane that he assumed was London. The city had been a lot smaller and blacked out at night the last time he'd been there. The S.H.I.E.L.D. jet was Spartan, but more comfortable than anything Steve was used to, and gave a much smoother ride. That, and the lack of sleep from the past few weeks, probably explained his impromptu nap. He'd never fallen asleep in midair before. "What time is it?"

"1905, local time. A car will meet us and take you to the meeting."

_You_. Not _us_. Steve noticed the distinction. "You're—you're not coming?"

"No, sir." Hill answered blandly. She was definitely holding something back. It seemed that's all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did, hold certain facts back. Steve didn't remember the old S.S.R. being like that, but then, he'd been a _part_ of that, not a guest. Prisoner? Whatever he was supposed to be in this time.

He blinked, and realized that he'd missed something of the conversation. "…but don't worry, you'll have a driver take you where you need to go, and we have offices near the airport. I suggest you take your time. When you're finished, we'll head back to New York."

_Just like that_. Across the ocean and back again, no problem, in a jet that moved like a rocket. If Steve wasn't so overwhelmed by it all, he might have found it fascinating. He just nodded at Hill, who went back to the small, glowing device that was balanced on her leg and started tapping the screen.

**CAPCAPCAP**

The cottage the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent drove Steve to wasn't the largest he'd seen during his earlier time in England, but it looked fairly comfortable. Whoever lived there must have been well-off, assuming it was really a cottage and not another of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s disguised buildings.

A gray-haired, somewhat short but friendly man in a suit and tie opened the door and ushered him inside. The older man took Steve's jacket and led him to a well-adorned, comfortable sitting room.

Not exactly what he'd expected when they'd said he was requested at another debriefing.

He sat at the end of a plush loveseat and waited. The furnishings were nice, and more akin to what he was used to than the futuristic government complex he'd been living at for the past few weeks.

Minutes were ticking by, and Steve began to wonder why no one else had come. The butler poured some tea for him, but then had disappeared. The cottage was quiet, and as time passed, Steve grew antsy. He didn't sense a threat, but his discomfort level was rising, despite the tranquil environment. In an effort to keep from fidgeting, he checked his watch.

"You're late," a voice called out from behind him.

Steve started at the sudden voice. He practically leapt to his feet and turned, seeing a woman standing silhouetted in the doorway. In the light, he could see she had white hair, but her face was obscured. "I'm sorry, I—"

"I'm the one who should apologize, dragging you across the sea…but when Fury contacted me, I had to see for myself."

Steve wasn't sure how to answer, at first, but the sound of the English-lilted voice brought him up short. It sounded familiar, but—

The woman stepped forward. She was old, slightly stooped, with pale skin to match her solid white hair. His gaze swept over her, taking in her features, but he stopped cold when he settled on the brown eyes. Those fierce, unflinching brown eyes.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. "P-Peggy…?"

She smiled warmly at him, but shaking her head. "Hello, Steve."

The room was spinning. Steve felt his knees start to give and had to brace himself against the loveseat to keep from hitting the floor. Peggy stepped over to him, reaching up and gripping his shoulders to steady him. Her hands were thinner and shakier than he remembered.

But she laughed, and that was still the same. The most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. "Don't make me carry you to the sofa, Steve. You're quite heavy, and I'm an old woman."

Propped against the arm of the chair, Steve was closer to eye level with her. "Peggy."

She stepped up against him, cupping her hands over his face. "Is that all you have to say, soldier?" Peggy looked him over. It was one microscope Steve didn't mind being under. "I can't believe it. You haven't aged a _day_."

"I didn't think I'd see you again." Steve muttered, voice barely above a whisper. He raised his hands to cover hers.

She smiled at him, intertwining her fingers in his. "I know a little of what that's like."

Steve slid his arms around her, careful not to squeeze too hard. She was much frailer than…before, and her shoulders quaked a little as they embraced. He leaned down and kissed her.

They stayed that way for a long time, neither of them pulling back. Steve closed his eyes, and all the revelations of the past two weeks melted away. For one, blissful moment, he could pretend it was 1945, and he was at last home from his final mission.

Too soon, Peggy pulled away, but wrapped her hands around his and tugged him further into the room, next to the center coffee table.

"Where are we going?" he asked. She reached down and picked up a small control box. He didn't see any wires coming from it, but didn't seem important enough to ask about it. Peggy pressed a button, and music filled the room from a set of speakers along one wall. Steve listened for a moment. "I…I know this…."

The title of the song came to him a moment later. _We'll Meet Again_. Peggy pulled him closer, and he didn't resist. She gazed up at him with the same defiant, mulish look in her eyes that he'd seen so many times. "Like I said, you're late. But, it _is_ Saturday. And you owe me a dance, soldier."

Steve still didn't know how to dance, but he wasn't about to bring that up. Not in the face of an obvious order. He grinned and scooped Peggy gently into his arms. "Yes, ma'am."

END

A/N: I've recently learned that there were more scenes with Steve, including one with Peggy, in the Avengers but it was all cut for time. While I tried to give Steve a little closure here, given the way he beats the tar out of that punching bag in the movie, I'm thinking the cut scenes were not as nice to him.


End file.
